by Bess McBride
To my surprise, Mrs. Agnew seemed determined to stick around and help me dress. Lifting the tartan blanket from my shoulders, she laid it on the bed and reached for the buttons of my blouse. I backed up.
“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Agnew. I’m sure you have other things to do. I can dress myself.”
Mrs. Agnew dropped her arms. “Well, if ye’re sure, mistress. I dinna mind. We’re short a lady’s maid since her ladyship passed.”
“How long ago did she die?” I asked.
“Last winter it was, mistress. She took ill with a fever and was gone by the next morn. It was quite sudden. She was wi child, ye ken. The babe died wi her.”
I drew in a sharp breath. “Babe? Oh no!”
“Aye, the laird was beside himself wi grief. He couldna be consoled.”
My heart went out to the man downstairs. I couldn’t imagine what kind of fever his wife had suffered, but it seems likely they couldn’t get her to a hospital in time. And the baby. My throat tightened, and I teared up. I guessed living on these remote estates had some drawbacks.
“Well then, mistress, I will leave ye to it. Can ye find yer way back to the dining room? I know his lairdship wishes to speak wi ye afore the night is out.”
I nodded. “Yes, I can find my way back again. Thank you, Mrs. Agnew.”
She nodded and left the room, taking her oil lamp with her.
I eyed the assortment of clothing with mounting anxiety. I had no idea what went where, but I wasn’t about to let the housekeeper dress me. I didn’t know what Colin would make of me traipsing around his house in his dead wife’s clothing, but what could I do? There was no way I could borrow something of Mrs. Agnew’s to wear. She was just too small for words.
I kicked off my athletic shoes and peeled out of my damp blouse and jeans. Slipping out of my wet bra, I decided my panties would have to stay. I wasn’t about to go commando.
I wadded my wet clothing and looked around the room for somewhere to hang them so they could dry. I didn’t dare put them on any of the furniture. The room was devoid of closets or a wardrobe, so no hangers.
The fire beckoned me, and I trotted over to it. Finding no way to hook the clothing onto the stone fireplace, I laid everything out on the red-and-green plaid woolen rug fronting the fireplace.
Goose bumps rose on my bare skin, and I hurried back to the bed, grabbing something that looked like a white shift. I slipped into it, the unexpected luxury of silk drifting down over my skin.
What else?
The corset. On closer inspection, it looked less intimidating than I had thought. I wrapped it around my waist, thankful to see that it fastened in front. Although I tied it loosely, the sturdy material woven into the seams still forced me into a rigid posture.
Well, it was just for one night. My clothes would be dry by morning.
I ignored the hooped thing that looked like a frame, and slipped into a beautiful dark-amber velvet skirt, tying it at the back. I assumed the matching bodice jacket with three-quarter sleeves was to go over the corset, and I shrugged into it. Thankfully, it was loose across my chest, and I was able to fasten it.
I looked down at the bed to see a pair of white stockings and garters. No. I thought not. Besides, who would know if I wore stockings?
Mrs. Agnew had thoughtfully brought some dainty little black shoes with buckles on the toes, but they looked way too small. I stepped back into my damp athletic shoes and called it a day. In order to protect the jacket, I wrapped my wet ponytail into a bun and pulled the elastic over it to secure my casual updo.
I crossed over to the dressing-table mirror and eyed myself. Transformed into some sort of historical character, I could momentarily imagine that I was indeed in the eighteenth century. Now that time had passed since Colin’s bizarre statement, and I’d had time to reflect, I realized he had been joking. I really thought, though, that when I ran from the house, he should have given me a break and dropped his pretense.
“You are Beth Pratt, twenty-first-century kind of gal,” I told my reflection in the mirror. “There is no way you could survive in the eighteenth century. None. So you’d better not actually be there.” I bit my lip. In fact, Colin’s wife and child had not survived. Maybe he wasn’t just eccentric. Maybe that tragedy had put him over the edge.
My throat closed over again, and near to tears once more, I turned away from the mirror, picked up one of the candles and made my way down the stairs.
George hurried out from the great room as soon as he heard my footsteps on the stairs, and he led me back to the table. Colin, who had been standing in front of the fire, staring into it, swung around. His eyes widened, and I winced. No, it had not been a good idea to wear his dead wife’s clothing.
“Mistress Pratt!” he exclaimed. “Ye look verra bonnie!” Other than a lift of his eyebrow, nothing in his expression suggested he recognized the clothing. But then again, maybe he was one of those men who didn’t pay attention to women’s clothing.
“Thank you,” I said with a bright smile. I was determined to get to the bottom of this eighteenth-century versus themed-hotel thing. Something had to give, and I didn’t want it to be my sanity.
He led me not to the table but to a set of high-backed wooden chairs near the fire, where tea awaited us. George poured a cup for each of us and left silently.
“I trust ye are recovered, warm and dry?” Colin asked. A crinkle at the corner of his eye told me he was smiling, though I did not see a flash of his handsome smile.
“Yes, thank you. I’m so sorry I took off like that. More sorry that you had to chase me down and get wet yourself.” I noticed he had changed out of his kilt into a set of dark-blue trousers, a gray waistcoat and a different black jacket than he had worn earlier. White silk ruffles hung from his sleeves, and his neckcloth was freshly tied. He wore no tartan of any sort. I promised myself to ask him about tartans as well, depending on how long I was going to be stuck. Well, stuck didn’t exactly sound quite right, not when I looked into his dark gray-blue eyes.
I took a big gulp of the hot tea, kept a straight face as it burned my throat, set my cup down on a side table and asked the question.
“Tell me about this eighteenth century,” I said.
Colin tilted his head. This time his lips did curve. “Ye sound as if ye live in another century.”
This time I quirked an eyebrow. “Well, you know very well that I do. I live in the twenty-first century.”
Colin, in the act of sipping his tea, jerked and sputtered. Tea spilled down the front of his jacket. He set the cup down on the side table with a clatter and rose to stare at me.
“Mistress! Are ye daft?” He brushed the liquid from his clothing, with little concern for a stain.
Intimidated by his size as he loomed over me, I jumped up as well. At five foot nothing, the top of my head hardly met his armpits, but I backed up a few steps and stared him down.
“No, your lairdship! I am not daft. I think it is ye who must be daft!”
Colin’s eyes narrowed, and his lips twitched at my use of his dialect. But his smile faded quickly as he eyed me.
“It isna possible,” he said. “The twenty-first century? And how might ye have come here from the twenty-first century?”
“By car, plane and bus?”
Colin shook his head. “I dinna ken these things. Are they magic?”
“You know what, Colin? We should just sit down and play this game in a civilized fashion. Starting by you not jumping up and standing over me. That scared me.”
Colin looked instantly remorseful, and he bowed at the waist. Such manners!
“I ask ye to accept my most humble apologies. I didna wish to frighten ye. I shall strive nae to do so again.”
I nodded and sat down, and he followed suit. I gulped my tea again. Sipping seemed for sissies at the moment, and I needed strength.
“Look, Colin. I think this is a themed hotel, but I think you’re carrying it too far. It’s okay to at least reassure me that I have
n’t traveled through time, because I’m just about there.”
Colin looked at me for a moment and then stared into the fire.
“Colin?”
He turned back to face me and lifted his cup to finish his tea. I noticed his hand shook as he set it down in the saucer.
“Is it really so hard? Don’t you ever come out of character?” I asked. I wondered again at his state of mind. Other than the historical persona, he seemed quite nice. Very nice, actually.
“Madam, I dinna ken what to say.” His chest heaved as if he took in a deep breath. “It is ye who are confused. It is the year 1746. Ye are in Scotland at my home, Gleannhaven.”
My first instinct was to run again, to run from this nutty guy, but my legs refused to move. I shifted my eyes to stare into the fire, realizing I was a little less shocked to hear him insist we were in the eighteenth century again, although hearing the specific date was still pretty jarring. I supposed I was a little less shocked because I realized that it probably was me who was daft. Or I really had traveled in time. It was possible that a man could have a remote castle devoid of obvious electricity, running water or central heating. Not likely, but possible. It was even possible that he could live his life as if it were a period drama and force his employees to do the same.
But I had known something was wrong when I saw the landscape—the thickened heather, the strange appearance of the hillside, as if the double-lane paved highway had diminished in some way. I wished now that I’d taken the time to run up to the road, but I hadn’t realized what had happened.
I had traveled in time. I didn’t know how or why, but I had traveled in time. Something about the water in the stream had acted as a catalyst, and I was in 1746. The bus would not come for me. I had no purse, no cell phone, no one to call in 1746. And I had no money to pay for someone to come get me. To take me...I couldn’t imagine where. Back to the States in the mid-seventeen hundreds? Before the American Revolution?
“Miss Pratt? Yer face is fair ashen. Will ye take something stronger than the tea?”
I kept my eyes on the fire and nodded. I heard him rise and move away. He returned in a moment and handed me a heavy crystal glass of some dark-brown liquid. I assumed it was whisky. We were in Scotland, after all.
“Drink. It will do ye good, help ye with the shock.” Colin retook his seat. “I ken as soon as I saw ye, Mistress Pratt, that ye were nae as other women I have kent. I thought at first it was because ye were from the colonies. But the shock on yer face when I mentioned the year fair convinced me that ye were nae from our time.”
I raised my glass to my lips and drank a hefty gulp of the strong liquor, gasping as it ran down my throat and burned a hole in my stomach.
“Holy cow!” I said staring at the glass. “That’s strong!”
“Aye,” Colin said with a chuckle. “Please tell me that whisky still exists in yer time. I canna believe I am speaking such...in yer time.”
“Yes, whisky is alive and well in my time,” I said, beginning to feel almost a sense of normalcy in the conversation. Or maybe it was the whisky. “And Scotland has many distilleries.”
“Aye, that’s all right then,” Colin said. He rolled his r as if it would never end, and I loved the sound of it. I sipped my whisky again.
“How did I get here?” I pondered aloud, staring at the dark liquid in my glass. “Why?”
“I dinna ken, madam, nor can I tell ye how to return, should ye wish to do so.”
I looked up at him then. “Oh, of course I want to go home! I’ll admit I came here to see Scotland. Maybe I really wanted to see the historical part of Scotland, but not to live in it. I can’t survive here!” With my free hand, I jabbed a thumb toward my chest to emphasize the point. “I just can’t.”
“Why ever not? Is it so different in the future?”
My eyes widened and I nodded. “Oh, yes. Oh, yes indeedy!”
“How so?”
“It would take me hours to explain how different it is in the future, and that’s supposing I know how it is here in your time. And I really don’t. We read about history, Scotland and other countries, but none of us really knows what it’s like to live in mid-eighteenth-century Scotland.”
“Nooo, I can see that ye might not. Are there no writings to describe our time, our troubles?”
“Do you mean the Highlander Uprising? Culloden? Bonnie Prince Charlie?”
“Aye, those and other things. We lost much after Culloden. Do the writings speak of such?”
I tilted my head—too much whisky, and history class was some eight years ago in high school. I had tried to listen to John, the tour guide, droning on through the microphone, but some folks sitting near me on the bus had talked all through the discussion of events leading up to Culloden. I had hoped to buy a book when we got to the battlefield and memorial.
“They probably do, Colin, but I don’t know much about them. Is that why you said the kilt was forbidden, and you mentioned English soldiers?”
“Aye, Scotland has been under English rule for years, and that is not likely to change.” He looked up quickly. “Does it?”
Oh no! Modern politics. Not my favorite topic. I thought quickly.
“Not like now, Colin. Scotland belongs to the United Kingdom, which is made up of Northern Ireland, Scotland, Wales and England. But Scotland does have its own representatives in parliament. And they recently voted to stay within the United Kingdom. Does that help?”
Colin drew a deep breath and released it. He nodded.
“Aye, there is hope then. Do many Scots live in Scotland?”
“I’m not sure what you mean. Who else would live here?”
“If they do not cease driving people off the land, I am afraid no Scots will live here, but the sheep will certainly thrive.”
I had no idea what he was talking about, but the grief in his body was palpable, and I reached across the table for his hand. Thanks to the whisky, I suspect.
“Everything is going to be all right, Colin. I promise.”
Colin pulled my hand to his lips, and I gasped. He smiled and set my hand back on the table.
“Then I too must say to ye, Beth, that everything is going to be all right. I promise.”
And his rolling r’s made me think he was right.
Chapter Three
Colin and I talked late into the night, burning through several candles. I answered his questions, and he answered mine, at least as many questions as I could think of at the moment.
The one question he could not answer was, how could I get back to my time? And I could provide no response when he asked me why I had traveled in time, why I had come to the eighteenth century.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Did ye have a particular fondness for Scotland? Ye said ye came to visit Scotland...in yer time.”
I nodded.
“Well, yes. I have Scottish ancestors, but then again, I have Irish ancestors and English ancestors.”
Colin’s dark eyebrows narrowed.
“English?”
“Yes, or so my mother said. She was fond of genealogy.”
“Genealogy?” Colin repeated.
“The study of our family lines, our ancestors and descendants.”
Colin nodded. I was amazed at his quick understanding, given that he was an eighteenth-century man. I never had to explain anything twice. Perhaps it was arrogant of me to assume he could not easily grasp new concepts. Perhaps he was just really very intelligent.
“Ye said she was fond of genealogy. Has yer mother passed then?”
I sighed heavily, and then a thought came to me, and I smiled.
“In my time, she has passed, but as it happens, in your time, she hasn’t yet been born. So that’s the good news. I miss her terribly.”
“Aye,” he said softly. “I miss my mother as well. She was taken by the grippe.”
I knew that meant flu.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “How long ago?”
; “Four years ago now.”
I thought about his wife and baby dying, but I didn’t want to bring the subject up, so I said nothing.
“And yer mother?”
“Last year,” I said. “She died of heart disease.”
“Ah, the heart. Such a fragile thing, it is.”
I nodded.
The softness in his face almost brought me to tears.
“And yer father?”
“He passed away when I was a little. I don’t remember him. My mother never remarried. It’s always been just her and me.”
He clucked sympathetically.
“My father died shortly after Culloden. We are a fine pair of orphans, are we not?” he asked with a sympathetic smile.
I couldn’t help but smile in return.
“Come, lass. We must get ye to bed. We canna solve the riddle of yer travel through time this night, but perhaps with some sleep, we might be more clear headed in the morning.
I rose, stepping on the edge of my skirt and lurching forward ungracefully.
Colin caught me by the shoulders and steadied me. He dropped his hands quickly, far more quickly than I wanted.
“Oops, sorry about that. I’m not used to the length of this dress.”
“Ye dinna wear dresses in yer time?”
“Oh, sure we do,” I said airily. “Just not me. I prefer my jeans.”
“Alas, I think ye must continue to wear such clothing while ye are here. The servants have gossip enough. I dinna wish it to be known by all and sundry that ye are here or where ye come from.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Come then.” Colin tucked my hand under his arm and led me from the room, taking me up the stairs and delivering me to my door.
“Is all to yer liking in the room?” he asked as I opened the door.
I peeked in. The fire was still going and looked as if it had recently had wood added to it.
“Yes, it’s toasty warm. Thank you. It’s a beautiful room.”
“Aye, the Red Room, we call it. It was my sister’s favorite.”
“Your sister?”
He nodded. “Aye. Good night then, Mistress Pratt.” He bowed and stepped back from the door.